Jay eyed the literature book on my counter and said something that stung.
« Mom, you’re really still doing this? »
« I’m finishing my final semester, » I said, maybe a little too proudly, setting the pot roast down between us.
« We just figured the novelty would wear off, » Sofia said, not unkindly, more like she was genuinely trying to understand something that didn’t add up for her.
« I’m finishing my final semester. »
« It was never a novelty, dear, » I replied. « It was my lifelong dream to become a teacher. »
« You’re SIXTY-TWO, » Jay said, like the number itself was an argument that ended the conversation on its own.
« What does my age have to do with learning? »
« It has to do with who’s going to hire a first-year teacher at retirement age, » he snapped.
My son wasn’t cruel about it. He sounded, if anything, a little worried. That’s what I thought.
